


We'll Rest East, Justified

by Konstantya



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Canon - Original Game, Drama, F/M, Gen, Post-Original Game, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-27
Updated: 2007-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: It isn’t until closing time comes around that she realizes she has been waiting.  (Follow-up toStability.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net) on April 27, 2007. Cross-posted here on January 27, 2017.

 

It isn’t until closing time comes around that she realizes she has been waiting. She even lets the bar stay open an extra ten minutes, blaming it on lethargy, before she finally shoos patrons out, locks the doors, and reluctantly stops the neon sign in the window from advertising “OPEN.”

Tifa still has to clean up, and she’s tired. Yes, tired, she decides. Just tired.

She’s in the middle of wiping tables when the knock comes. Her eyes snap up to the door and there he is. Ridiculously red hair, sloppy suit. He grins his lopsided smirk, raises his eyebrows in a mocking plea, and there is suddenly no passing it off as fatigue. Tifa is angry.

She still hates him, hates his hair, his clothes, his attitude, how he comes to her bar when there are hundreds of others around, how he presumes to come so late, after she has closed.

She looks at him for a moment, and then goes back to cleaning, moving around the table so that her back is to him. He knocks again, and she ignores him. Another moment passes.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, and his voice is muffled through the glass.

Tifa pauses in her wiping, letting her eyes settle somewhere beyond the surface of the table, and sighs. Slowly, deliberately, she leaves her washcloth on the table and walks to the door. Slowly, deliberately, she unlocks the locks, opens the door less than halfway, and looks at him. She thinks he seems rather worn out, himself, but Tifa pays his physical state of being little attention, because Tifa can’t stand Reno, doesn’t like him at all, wouldn’t care one bit if he overtaxed his lungs running a ten mile race, and doesn’t even have to lie to herself about such things.

“What?” she asks.

“A bourbon on the rocks,” he says, as he always does.

“I’m closed.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Friday,” she corrects.

“Three time zones over, it’s still Thursday.”

“Then find a bar three time zones over.”

“By the time I get there, they’ll all be closed.”

“Then hit a liquor store.”

“I don’t need a liquor store.”

“Right. You just need a bourbon on the rocks.”

“And you need to serve it to me.”

Tifa snorts in an unladylike manner. “Demanding much?”

“Someone has to be.”

He had shown up that Monday, in the afternoon sun which matched his hair, given her a little smile and obliviously melted any righteous irritation she might have had, caught up quietly, spent most of the rest of the day silent with her, helped her clean the bar that night, and was gone with the dawn. Four days so far. The last time was almost four weeks.

Reno could offer to help her clean up in return for her trouble, but Reno is no gentleman, never was, never will be, and he did not come by to play janitor, so he doesn’t.

Tifa finally steps back and lets him in, because Tifa doesn’t like Reno in the least, but he’s steady in his unsteadiness.

He takes a seat at the left end of the bar as he always does, and Tifa goes back behind the counter, half-fills a glass with ice, pours the alcohol over it, and, as she always does, she coolly slides his drink to him. As always, Reno reaches into his jacket for the gil to pay her and sets it on the bar top, and she takes it and resumes wiping the tables.

By the time she’s replacing the cloth behind the bar, he’s finished his drink, and he motions for another, because they both need it.

As she always does, Tifa pours him more, but grudgingly. “You drink too much,” she says.

“Always.”

Half of the chairs are on the tables by the time he stands, and without a word, Tifa goes to the door and unlocks it again, waiting next to it for him to leave. Reno swaggers toward the door, and pauses in front of her as he surveys the empty bar. “A lot of cleaning left to do,” he comments, because something needs to be said, but nothing of consequence.

“You’re not helping.”

“Obviously not,” he says with his grin. “You look like hell.”

“So do you.”

He shrugs. “Work. Just got back in town.”

“Where were you?”

“Three time zones over.”

“And you couldn’t have found a bar over there?”

“You don’t serve at bars three time zones over.”

Tifa looks at him speculatively, but only for a moment. “I still don’t like you,” she says.

“I know.”

“So don’t even _think_ of trying to get all friendly and close because I happened to let you in after hours,” she warns.

He smiles his wolfish grin in response, but it fades quickly. Reno shakes his head a little and hums shortly. “Mm. Never,” he says, and the word is genuine. “It might give you a reason to start liking me.”

And because he is always quick to pick up nuances, because there is something behind her stern expression that is almost starting to soften, because he knows she’s thankful for him, and because he knows she can’t afford to not hate him, he brings his cocky smile back to his lips and continues. “And it’s no fun harassing a girl who likes you. You can get away with anything. Like this.” And he makes his hand snake quickly around her hip and settle on her rear.

Tifa punches him. A hard right that he’ll feel for the majority of a week.

Reno brings his head back around and tentatively moves his jaw, testing it. He can taste blood in his mouth, and Tifa is fuming, her fists clenched, her arms straight and taut at her sides, her eyes glaring daggers. She enunciates very clearly and precisely two words that carry no ultimatums. “Get. Out.”

Reno smiles the cocky smirk he always does. Tifa still hates him, will still tell herself she does, will still wish he would find some other bar to frequent.

He steps out into the night and bows mockingly in his still-rumpled suit, his still-too-red hair almost falling in his eyes. “Until next time, then.” Tifa glares, but doesn’t argue, and he adds, “I won’t be late.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was very happy with the way “Stability” turned out, but I couldn’t stop thinking “What if…?” Also, since I arbitrarily named “Stability” after the Death Cab For Cutie song, and realized it fit quite nicely, this title came from a line of lyrics in the song.
> 
> Now who had fun reading between all those lines? ;p


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